


When The North Wind Blows.

by morwrach



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apprentice Credence Barebone, Blood Magic, First Kiss, Graves finally taking a holiday!, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Stormy Weather, Welsh mythology., Wizarding Wales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:19:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: The clever North wind sweeps across the Welsh mountain where Percival Graves is visiting Credence Barebone (now an apprentice to an interfering old witch), bringing a storm which coaxes out unspoken desires and reveals untold powers...





	When The North Wind Blows.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gothyringwald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/gifts).



> gothyringwald & I discovered that we both love many of the same classic tropes, so we've written something for one another. <3 I hope you like my stormy weather take on 'snowed in'!
> 
> There's a tiny mention of self-injury but it's one sentence and it's not graphic.

“It is three at night. I have something to say. You are so valuable. You shine out. You are a magic star. You are a body of blood made beautiful. How I admire, sit back and adore you.” – Anne Sexton. 

___

Darkness falls quickly in the mountains. The path under Graves’ feet, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, is fading in the dwindling light. A bitingly cold winter wind tugs at his scarf and scours the planes of his cheeks with its icy fingers, but the thought of seeing Credence again warms him from deep inside. It’s been almost a year since his former ward announced out of the blue that he was leaving to become the apprentice of a witch in Britain, a friend of Newt’s, and his absence has ached. _He wasn’t yours to keep,_ his inner voice reminds him, but Merlin, how he’d yearned to.

With the memory of Credence’s bright smile and the way his shoulders shake when he laughs, Graves hikes his bags higher on his shoulder and carries on trudging up the winding path. Every so often he stops to admire the distant peaks of the mountains, dusted with snow like flour from a shaker. All around him the landscape hums with life; an owl hoots overhead and something rustles unseen in the bushes. The gentle undulations of the mountain dip at either side of the pass, spreading out into the distance in a patchwork quilt of fields and glittering pools, dense clumps of trees, and groups of grazing sheep. There’s not a sign of a house as far as the eye can see. Wales is a wild and ancient place indeed, but all the more beautiful for it.

Frosty leaves and shallow frozen puddles crackle under his walking boots as he continues to follow the path. Up ahead a figure emerges out of the gloom, swaddled in scarves and an enormous overcoat. In one hand they carry a large staff, and pick their way across the darkened mountain path with an easy, comfortable familiarity. As they draw closer, Graves considers asking them for directions to the cottage. The wind is picking up, and the night is coming fast.

“Noswaith dda!” calls out the figure, voice carrying on the howling wind, “Mae glaw ynddi!”

Graves cups his hands around his mouth and shouts back. “Good Evening! Do you speak English?”

“Percival?” Credence’s voice rings out in surprise.

___

 

As Credence leads him along the bridle path to the cottage, he tells Graves about his life with Nanny Olwen the witch. He learns how Credence has spent more time tending to the illnesses and everyday problems of the local people than learning basic spells, and how he’s often paid with second-hand clothes or homemade cheeses or handfuls of nails. Graves watches his beautiful hands catching moonlight as he accentuates his stories with gestures. Credence joyfully admits that he can now ride a horse without a saddle, and the image of Credence riding bareback through the fields with the wind in his hair springs suddenly to mind. He’s so distracted by the thought that he misses everything Credence is telling him about his recent letters from Newt. Above the peaks of the distant mountains the clouds have turned purple in the fading light.

They reach the crest of a little hill and Credence stops and gestures down into the little valley below. Sitting quite alone in the landscape, except for some tumbledown farm outbuildings, is the cottage. It’s squat with a bowed roof of dark slate and two chimneys, one at each end, puffing out smoke in great plumes. Its windows glow with warm yellow light, a welcoming beacon against the dark crags of the mountainside.

An old horseshoe is nailed over the front door and Credence touches it for luck before opening the door. Following his lead Graves touches it too, a kiss of cold iron against his fingertips.

“Here we are,” Credence says, ushering Graves inside with a soft smile. “Come in and meet Olwen.”

Graves doesn’t tell him that he’s met Olwen before. The memory is bitter anyway. He’d floo called her in a panic only to be told in no uncertain terms that yes, Credence was here. Olwen had bluntly told him that Credence was happy, thriving, and definitely not coming back to New York but Graves was very welcome to visit.

Huddled close together in the narrow hallway, Graves shrugs off his coat whilst Credence pulls off his woollen hat and shucks off his overcoat His cheeks are flushed from the cold and his dark hair sticks up like he’s just got up out of bed. Graves feels a pang of fondness to look upon it, even as Credence exasperatedly tries to flatten it with limited success. Their shoulders bump as they deposit bags and outerwear, and though Graves apologises, there’s no strength behind his words. The merest touch feels precious and longed for, even one accidentally given.

Credence gives him a little tour of the downstairs rooms: junk room, parlour, lavatory, larder, kitchen. He’s surprised to find that the cottage is the same size inside as it appeared to be from outside: a series of small cluttered rooms inhabited by a veritable menagerie of woodland animals who all receive a pat or stroke from Credence, friend to hissing cat or squeaking mouse alike. They find Olwen in the kitchen, bent over a huge cauldron on the stove and muttering an incomprehensible incantation.

Nanny Olwen is a short old woman with a face wrinkled like an old apple and white hair swept back under a mob cap with an ostentatious number of ruffles. There’s something haughty and conspiratorial about her features as she greets Graves, but she becomes warmer and friendlier as they sit around the old oak table eating stew and telling tales.

Olwen talks about Credence as if he were her son as well as her apprentice. It seems that Credence has found a family in Wales that he never found in New York, even after everything that happened. Even after Graves had taken him in. The thought is bittersweet. It sits in Graves’ stomach like bile despite his attempts to will it away.

“Credydwr is my best and most promising student,” says Olwen, sucking at her teeth, “and I’ve had a lot of apprentices over the years.”

Credence is practically beaming, even as he ducks his head and hides his smile in his mug of tea.

“He has an extraordinary aptitude for blood magic,” Olwen says.

In response Credence admits shyly that he’s “getting fairly good at it.”

“He was full of bile when he first arrived,” Olwen continues, “All spit, spit, spit. Too much fire in the blood and nothing to burn, but he’s patient and careful and a hard worker. Nothing like hard work to temper the spirits.”

“Does it help?” Graves asks, “with your shadowy friend?”

Credence nods, saying quietly “It seems to soothe it.”

Olwen gets up out of her seat and moves across to the stove to fix herself another cup of tea. As the kettle boils, she ruffles Credence’s hair with one ancient hand. 

“You’re my pride and joy, Credydwr.”

Credence smiles up at her, happy and at ease. His hair has grown longer, hanging just past his jaw in beautiful dark waves with the odd wild curl. The wildness suits him. He looks healthier, skin clearer and eyes brighter. His shoulders seem broader and his arms stronger. Graves’ gaze traces the line of his noble nose, and the shape of his smiling mouth. Graves breath catches in his throat. He averts his eyes and returns to focusing on Olwen, who arches one white eyebrow and gives him a knowing look which shames him like a boy in front of a school teacher. Under the table, the sad-eyed greyhound rubs itself comfortingly against his legs.

“Right, I’ll be off now,” Olwen announces, setting the dishes to wash in the sink with a swish of her wand. “Enid’s expecting me.”

“Enid is her common law wife,” Credence tells Graves in a hushed voice.

Olwen clicks her knobbly fingers and a motheaten carpet bag tumbles down the staircase, bumping and thudding on every step. The sound reverberates through the small cottage. The bag waits patiently in the hallway, visible through the door of the kitchen.

Graves stands up from the kitchen table to inform Olwen that he’ll join her, that it’s late and he must be getting back to the village, but brusque as ever she cuts him off.

“Of course, you will stay for a few days,” she says, pleasantly and decisively. “You can share with Credence – if that’s not below a rich man like you?”

Shamed, Graves quickly replies with “No, I’m not above that. That’s fine.”

“It’s settled then,” Olwen says sternly, “There are extra blankets and an eiderdown in the back room. It's going to be a cold night, storm on the way, see.”

She wraps a large shawl around her shoulders and wedges her large stovepipe-shaped black hat down onto her head. She salutes Graves, and hugs Credence tight, whispering in his ear. He whispers back, and Graves would find it rude if it wasn’t so charming.

Olwen closes the door behind her with a bang and they are all alone.

Credence takes a seat on the other side of the table, where he sits sipping his spiced tea and gazing in Graves’ direction with open fondness. His sweater sleeves are pulled over his hands.

“I’m really happy you’re here,” Credence says, stroking the cat who has climbed up onto the table and is picking her way across it like she owns the place.

“What kind of guardian would I be if I didn’t come to check how you were getting on?” Graves offers, amicably. _What kind of guardian lusts after their ward?_ Graves’ internal voice chastises him.

They slip easily into conversation over mugs and mugs of tea. Credence seems to glow, cheekbones touched with lamplight and dark eyes twinkling.

Graves melts as Credence affectionately describes how he’d hand reared a baby goat in the summer months, feeding it milk and holding it close. He mimes the goat’s appearance, holding his hands either side of his face like long floppy ears and bleating. Graves laughs, and Credence laughs back. Credence asks about New York, about Tina and Queenie and Graves’ house elf and MACUSA. Graves asks about Wales and the farm and the books Credence is reading, but he can’t bring himself to voice the questions he burns to ask – Is this better than New York? Are you happy? Did you miss me?

___

 

Eventually evening turns to night. They climb the stairs one after the other, Credence holding a lit candle in a little dish holder and Graves casting some weak wandlight. The walk up the small flight of stairs seems to take an age and Credence’s heart hammers in his chest with nerves and anticipation. _It’s not like anything’s going to happen_ he chastises himself, and yet his nerves sing.

He unlatches his door, and it swings open with a creak to reveal his small bedroom. He tries not to feel embarrassed about his mismatched pillow cases and the mug half-filled with cold tea on his bedside table. From the slight frown which creases Graves’ brow when he observes it, Graves seems more unimpressed by the plain wooden cross hanging above Credence’s bed. Catching sight of the erotica peeking out from under his pillow, Credence hurriedly ushers Graves off to the bathroom before stuffing the offending literature under his bed with blushing panic.

He slips into his pyjamas before Graves returns and then escapes to the bathroom, his skin tingling with a mix of embarrassment and excitement. Credence washes his face with cold water and tries to calm the hot blood which thrums in his groin at the thought of Graves undressing in his bedroom. He takes calming breaths and when that doesn’t work he scrubs his hands until the dirty beds of his nails are perfectly clean. Brushing his teeth, he observes himself in the mirror – pale, bony, with awkward ears, and patches of missed stubble. Hardly the stuff of fantasies. 

Returning to his room, he finds Graves already in bed looking impossibly handsome. He’s propped up on one elbow with his reading glasses on his nose and Credence’s battered copy of The Mabinogion in one hand. His expensive-looking pyjamas gape at the neck, offering a glimpse of dark chest hair. Credence swallows hard, shifting from foot to foot. Graves looks up, dark eyes warm and a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Credence melts.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Graves says, gesticulating with the book. “I’ve been reading the story of Culhwch.”

His pronunciation is terrible.

“It’s just the thing if you enjoy tales of giants being slaughtered,” Credence jokes awkwardly. Graves laughs, and Credence feels a great sense of achievement.

“The magical wild boar, Twrch Trwyth is real too,” Credence says, mostly to distract himself as he gets into bed beside Graves. 

The springs dip under his weight, tipping his body towards Graves’. Their calves brush, and lustful thoughts creep unbidden into his head.

“Is it still hunted?” Graves inquires, innocent of the thoughts raging in Credence’s head. 

“No, it’s protected by the fellowship of druids.” Credence replies, and at Graves’ visible relief says “Newt was relieved to hear that too.”

An owl hoots outside, and Graves seems to take that as his cue to put down the book and place his glasses down on the windowsill.

“Well, time for bed I think Credence. I don’t know about you, but I’m an old man and I need my eight hours.”

Credence nods mutely, longing for this warm intimacy to last just a little longer. Resigned, he banishes the light from the room with a twist of his hand. He looks across to see if Graves is impressed by his little feat of wandless magic, but he’s already turned over and closed his eyes.

“Goodnight Percival,” Credence says quietly, rolling onto his back.

“Goodnight,” Graves murmurs in return, voice already heavy with sleep.

Outside his window, the wind has begun to howl. Its hollow call echoes across the mountain, rattling the doors and sending birds flying. Credence follows their dark shapes as they flit across the sky, wondering how he’s ever going to get to sleep with Graves so close.

_____

 

The day dawns and bright morning light filters in through the curtainless windows, rousing Percival Graves from dreams of wishes fulfilled. Cold wind whistles in through a crack in the window frame, and Graves attempts to roll away from it only to find himself stopped by a warm heavy burden in his arms. He cracks open one bleary eye to find Credence nestled against him. His sleeping head is buried against Graves’ chest, nose tucked in the dip of his collarbone. At Graves’ attempt at movement, he murmurs something intelligible and burrows closer. A soft and endearing “mmm” warbles from his throat. He shifts closer, leg sliding against Graves’ own, a roughness of hair and a coldness of feet.

Graves sighs, heavy with love. He watches the minute rising and falling of Credence’s steady breaths, traces the tangles of his black hair, and finds that he cannot bring himself to do the right thing and separate himself from the embrace he’s woken up in. He wants to press his hand softly to Credence’s cheek and caress the sharp angles of his cheekbones. More than anything he just wants to lie here with Credence in his arms, safe and content, even though it’s improper.

_Propriety be damned_ , he thinks in a rash moment of selfishness. After all, there’s nobody here to witness his undoing – only the sky, the mountains, and the cat. He closes his eyes and sinks back to sleep, warm with happiness.

_____

 

When he wakes for the second time Credence is gone. Beside him the bedspread is cold. Graves lets his head fall back against the pillow and sighs a long weary sigh. Time to quell impossible desires and face the day.

He finds Credence sitting on the back step, dressed in a rust coloured sweater and worn trousers, eating breakfast off a china plate balanced in his lap.

“Good Morning,” Credence offers, voice rough from sleep “There are some kippers for you on the stove.”

Graves sits next to him on the step with his own plate in his lap and joins Credence in gazing up at the peak of the mountain, rising dark and majestic against the sky. Cool, clear air plays across their faces and rain pitter-patters on the grass. The world is quiet and calm.

Graves munches at a kipper, wondering what to possibly talk to Credence about. His mind is preoccupied with the memory of his body in his arms and the warmth of his skin.

“This is good,” he offers.

“It’s from Olwen’s wife, Enid,” Credence says, “She’s got a shed where smokes everything – meat, cheese, all that.”

“Mm,” Graves offers in what he hopes is a complimentary fashion. He wonders if Credence was unhappy to find himself in Graves’ embrace when he woke and fervently hopes that wasn’t the case.

They retire to the kitchen to wash up their plates and cutlery and to fetch some coffee. _Perhaps some unsweetened black coffee will sort me out_ , Graves hopes. As it brews, Credence takes up a broom and begins to carefully sweep the floor.

“There’s a spell for that,” Graves suggests helpfully.

“I know,” Credence replies with a smile, “but Olwen believes in the power of hard work.”

Graves smiles and sips his coffee. Outside the wind howls across the mountain, a horrible groaning which shakes the trees and rain hammers against the windows.

“When the rain stops, I can take you up to the peak to see the standing stone circle.” Credence says brightly, “It’s apparently full of untameable magical power.”

As if in response, a bolt of lightning cracks like a whip quickly followed by an ominous rumble of thunder. A pig squeals, high and frightened.

“The storm’s getting worse,” Credence says seriously, “I have to go strengthen the fences.”

He puts down the broom and takes a little bone-handled blade from the mantlepiece before rushing out of the door with the laces of his boots clumsily tied.

Graves puts down his coffee and fetches his coat and boots from the hallway before following Credence out into the storm. The sky is dark grey now, and it’s bucketing with rain. He conjures an umbrella over himself with his wand - a neat trick learned from Scamander of all people - and wanders to Credence’s side.

Credence brings out the knife and makes a quick cut to his forearm. A bead of blood glows brightly as it floats in the air, berry red against the mottled grey-browns of the landscape, the dark rotting wood of the fences, the white snow caps of the mountains. The sheep bleat insistently as the gale rattles through the field, and Credence furrows his brows. He draws his hands apart and the drop separates into smaller red pinpricks, wheeling in a glowing circle which pulses like a human heart in the air.

The wind tugs at their clothes and hair as Credence murmurs under his breath. Rain lashes down, pooling in the ground and hammering against the roof of the cottage. The sound of slates sliding and shattering briefly interrupts Credence’s concentration. Graves feels rather lost – he doesn’t know anything about animal husbandry or farmwork or the ancient and illegal blood magic Credence is working as if it’s second nature.

Credence draws his arms in a great arc over his head, and the red glow dissipates. The stones of the dilapidated barn heave themselves from the ground and wedge themselves back into the structure, filing gaps between the uneven stones. The slivers of blank space between the stones wedge themselves with moss. The weather vane atop the roof wheels and spins. Credence’s arm is perfectly steady as he extends it to point imperiously at the fence around the pigsty. The stout posts dig themselves deeper into the earth, and the sound of phantom hammering repairs the tears. The large black pig within ceases its terrified snorting and returns inside its house with an unnatural calm. It occurs to Graves that Credence is controlling the blood within the pigs themselves, and the thought is both impressive and terrifying. _Fire in the blood,_ thinks Graves, _fire with something to burn._

Old Silas, the bandy-legged goat takes a lot more coaxing (and what Graves is pretty sure is very offensive language in Welsh) before he consents to go into the barn; but the chickens are directed into their creaking henhouse easily enough. They hobble in a line to the door like courtiers after a king.

The knife comes out of Credence’s pocket again, and a tiny drop of blood flows down into his palm. He lets the rainfall wash it into the ground, and Graves watches dumbstruck as the ghostly shape of a hound drags itself up from the earth and bounds in great leaps towards the clustered group of sheep in the far field. Credence flashes Graves a proud smile, wet hair plastered against his forehead. Herded by the ghostly hound, the gaggle sheep rush back into the enclosed pasture next to the cottage. With the gate secured, the ghostly hound runs around Credence’s ankles before returning once more to the ground.

Graves realises with frightening clarity that Credence is far from the confused, helpless young man in need of magical education he had thought himself the protective guardian of. In his foolishness, he'd imagined himself a protector – first a father, and then, guiltily, a rich and powerful lover. He is in the presence of a sorcerer with greater command of his powers and the ancient powers of the earth than Graves himself will ever have.

Credence wades forward against the tide of rain and wind to mumble spells against the bark of the tall trees – litanies to hold strong, to hold fast. Even at a distance, Graves can see the telling red glow form between his hands as he draws his palms up and down, then across in strong, firm gestures – spells for the stability and resilience of the cottage and the outbuildings, imbuing the strength to withstand the storm through the strength of his blood.

“That’s everything!” Credence shouts to him, hands cupped around his mouth, “Let’s get inside before it gets any worse!”

Together, they slide through the mud back to the side door. Graves slips, and grips Credence’s hand to steady himself. There’s dried blood in his fingernails and he grips Graves’ hand in response.

Graves attempts to cast drying spells on himself and Credence as they stand dripping all over the kitchen floor, but it’s no good – Welsh rain is clearly far more persistent than American rainfall. His umbrella spell has shielded all but his feet from rain, but Credence looks positively drowned. They remove their boots, and Credence pulls off his heavy water-logged jumper. Graves follows Credence to the sitting room, dodging greyhound and cat, and relocates himself to the motheaten, creaking armchair.

“I’d say you’re more than fairly good at bloodwork,” Graves says with a hint of humour. 

“I’m _proficient_ according to Olwen,” Credence replies, crouching down to light the fire. “You should see what she can do.”

He fiddles with paper and twigs, feeding the growing flame with strips of birch bark. He carefully props wood against the fire back, trying to keep the smoke from entering the room before sweeping the hearth.

He can see Credence’s skin through his shirt – it’s wet right through and Graves could count every scar and freckle if he wanted to. Its plastered to his back, his suspenders pulled taut over his body – and Graves can’t look away, even as Credence pulls down those suspenders and peels his rain-wet shirt off his body, skin lit golden by firelight. His arms and shoulders are toned from all the farm work and the spell work, undulations of muscle and tendon which stoke the longing in Graves.

Credence sits down on the rug in front of the fire to remove his socks. Graves rakes his eyes over Credence’s chest – the thatch of hair peeking out of his vest, dark against his skin and his necklace. He knows he’s staring; the rest of the room has melted away, but he finds he can’t look away.

“It’s a hag stone,” Credence says.

Graves breaks out of his gazing, “What?”

“A hag stone,” Credence repeats, holding up the pendant from his necklace – a little round stone with a hole right through it.

“You can see through fairy traps and disguises if you look through it.” He observes Graves through the hole, his dark, beautiful eye framed by it.

“MACUSA could’ve done with one of those,” Graves says morosely, gaze still drifting to Credence’s chest.

Credence offers him a gentle, understanding look before commenting “There’s a lot MACUSA could learn from Welsh magic.”

Credence stretches, catlike, and gets up in one swift motion. He hangs his shirt and socks up to dry on the fire surround, before wrapping himself in a blanket from the chest by the hearth.

“You could educate them,” Graves offers, “We could create a special position for you, Welsh Liaison. Talk to the communities of New York, travel to Pennsylvania and Ohio…”

Credence smiles at the suggestion, eyes twinkling. “New York is so beautiful in the Springtime” he says wistfully.

Graves’ fanciful suggestion hangs in the air. Credence warms his bare feet by the fire.

“Why did you leave?” Graves asks, sombrely. He’s not sure he really wants to know, but an instinctive part of him bitterly wishes to prod at his emotional bruises.

Credence pauses, and his eyes seem to glow in the firelight. His face goes from happy to mournful.

“I wanted to learn to control the obscurus, to do magic. None of the conventional methods were working. Newt talked to Olwen, and blood magic isn’t illegal in Wales… and I wanted to have a life of my own where people weren’t using me or pitying me – and” he heaves a breath “I hated being in love with you. I hated it.”

The confession sinks in Graves’ chest like a heavy stone. The fire crackles, and Credence gazes into the flames as if he hasn’t just struck a blow against the anvil of Graves’ unsuspecting heart.

“Credence –“ he begins.

“No.” Credence snaps, “I don’t want your pity.”

“Credence –“ Graves says tentatively, because whilst he doesn’t want to push – he has to know. “Do you…are you still in love with me?”

Spoken aloud, the question sounds more urgent than he’d intended it to. Credence’s face crumples, and his mouth twists unhappily, but his eyes are fierce when they meet Graves’.

“Yes” he says, with a sharp edge of resentment.

He looks away as Graves flounders, and jabs at the fire with the poker. White hot little sparks fly around in the grate.

“I didn’t know.” Graves says, with painful gentleness. “If I had thought even for a second that you shared my feelings - ”

He stops, unsure of what to say. Voicing these thoughts feels like a lapse in good sense. He can’t look Credence in the eye.

“How long? How long did you feel that way about me?” Credence half-shouts.

The rain hammers against the window loudly and persistently. Graves feels utterly defeated. 

“I realised how I felt a few months after we met,” he says quietly, “after Grindelwald’s extradition.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Credence says accusingly, “All that time, you never told me.”

Graves tears his eyes up off the carpet. Credence looks furious. Graves heaves a heavy sigh and runs a hand over his face.

“It seemed grotesquely inappropriate – Mercy Lewis, I was your guardian. I was supposed to look after you, not _lust_ after you. I thought you’d feel disgusted, unsafe in my house.”

“Is that what it was?” Credence asks, sounding fraught.

“What?”

“Lust.” The word sounds flat, dull.

“No. Not just that.” Graves says carefully, “At first I thought I could teach you magic. Magic and manners and how to dress like a gentleman. I know, I know I was wrong. You didn’t need those things. I wanted to be near you, to talk to you, to hold you, to spend quiet evenings and long Sunday afternoons in your company. I wanted – _dammit_ I just wanted to matter to you. I know I was selfish, but I thought I could just keep you near even though you didn’t feel the same. I could buy things, and you’d maybe become fond of me as a friend. But then you left -” 

He pauses, swallows harshly.

“I missed you, more than I could have believed. I’ve been like a ghost haunting my own house. Since you left, everything has felt dull. Credence, I love you more than I thought possible.”

“You love me?” Credence echoes.

“I love you.”

Credence shuffles forward, blanket and all, and launches himself into Graves’s arms, wrapping his arms tightly around Graves’ shoulders and burying his face into his neck. Graves hugs him close, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. The morning has taken a turn for the miraculous, and the whole thing still feels like a fragile dream. He can feel Credence’s soft breaths against his neck.

“May I kiss you?” Graves murmurs into Credence’s ear. 

Credence separates himself from Graves’ arms a little so that they can gaze at each other face to face. He’s smiling, happy disbelief writ large across his features before he says “yes” with badly concealed excitement. Graves watches Credence pull his bottom lip between his teeth with giddy anticipation, before carefully placing his hand on Credence’s cheek. He caresses the soft skin behind Credence’s ear with his fingertips and tangles his index finger around a curl of black hair before Credence impatiently closes the gap between them and kisses him slowly and sweetly and patiently.

“I can’t believe you’re here – kissing _me._ _Me!_ You could have anyone you wanted” Credence says.

“Did you never consider, for even a second, that I might desire you?” Graves asks, with a slow smile. “I confess I felt like I was hiding it very badly.”

Credence shrugs. “I’ve got a lot of practice at wanting things I can’t have.”

“You can have me,” Graves replies breathlessly. 

Credence’s dark eyes are alight with hopeful desire as he surges forward to kiss him hotly and insistently, before clutching Graves’ hand and tugging him to his feet. He kisses him again, full of hunger and want. As Credence leads him up the stairs to his bedroom, pausing to kiss him on every other step, Graves muses that waiting out the storm might not be so dull after all…

**Author's Note:**

> A translation note: When Credence appears, he says "Good Evening! It looks like rain!"  
> Credydwr is Olwen's Welshification of Credence's name.
> 
> This story is loosely set in the Black Mountains, Y Mynyddoedd Duon, in South Wales, and Olwen wears traditional Welsh costume.
> 
> The Mabinogion is fantastic, and you can read all about the slaying of giants and the hunting of magical boars [here](https://archive.org/details/mabinogion00schrgoog/), if you feel so inclined. 
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr @nettlekettle](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) \- feel welcome to say hi or chat to me about this over-indulgent romanticising of my homeland!


End file.
